


catch my breath

by dasseinhundin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Coping, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lance (Voltron) Has Anxiety, Lance has depression, Langst, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Supportive Keith, Vulnerability, klangst, minor language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 04:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11050884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasseinhundin/pseuds/dasseinhundin
Summary: “Then don’t apologize.” Keith says simply. His expression softens as he reaches for Lance’s hand beneath the blankets. “Don’t ever feel sorry for the way you feel. And don’t think that you have to go through this on your own. No matter what, I’m here for you, Lance. So trust me, okay?”[In which the weight of Lance's depression finally gets the best of him, and Keith shows him that he doesn't have to carry it alone. Future fic.]





	catch my breath

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written as a shamelessly indulgent coping piece to help me deal with my most recent bout of depression because I have no self-control and project all of my mental health issues onto my faves. Written in practically a single sitting and un-beta'd so!!!!!! Here it is!!!!
> 
> Written to ["Goner" by Twenty One Pilots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3J5mE-J1WLk)

It’s been pulling him down for days now.

It’s aching in its familiarity, the sensation of numbness bleeding into his limbs, the feeling of slowly drowning in lukewarm water. It starts as a restlessness that can’t be forced out: he talks a mile a minute about anything to anyone who will listen, if only to keep some part of himself _moving_. He tries to help Hunk in the kitchen or in the hangars with the lions. Pokes and prods at Pidge’s tech gear until she kicks him out. He even volunteers to help Coran scrub down the healing pods, if only to keep himself from going still.

But despite his efforts he can still feel his insides rusting to a halt, the heavy weight of nothing pressing so heavily upon him that the sheer effort of keeping his shoulders squared winds him. He’s been running on fumes and half-baked smiles for _days_ now, and when his efforts to hide this begin to fail, he just retreats to his room entirely.

He’d been at dinner when he finally cracked.

The others were talking away, Pidge laughing at something Coran had said, Hunk eagerly engaging Allura in conversation about potential engineering updates to their armor. Even Shiro had gotten involved, animatedly waving his fork around to help illustrate whatever point he’s making—honestly, it was all just static to Lance’s ears. He’d pushed his food goo around with his spoon absentmindedly, vaguely nauseous. It’s only when Lance felt something nudge his arm that he snapped out of it.

“Hey,” Keith asked, quietly enough so that his voice could only be heard by the two of them. His eyes were so, so bright. Blinding. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

 The guilt hit Lance’s stomach hard, had him struggling to open his rusted-shut mouth to assure him that he was fine and _excuse me, I **always** look good,_ but all that came out of his mouth was a small hiccup. His eyes stung. His stomach lurched. Suddenly the effort of lying about how fine he felt seemed to be too much, and he swallowed thickly.

Nobody in the room was talking above a relatively acceptable level—hell, none of them were even as loud as Lance was on a _normal_ day—but coupled with Keith’s visibly growing worry and the gnawing, torturous feeling of emptiness, suddenly it was all too much. His breath hitched, his panic rising. He was drawing attention now, every eye on him, everyone asking him, _‘Is everything alright?’ and ‘Dude, what’s wrong?’_ and _‘Lance, you okay?—’_

It was too much.

So he’d fled to his room. Lance isn’t sure what time it is now; after his initial breakdown he’d fallen into a restless sleep but the low growl of his stomach tells him that it must have been at least a few hours. He rolls over, curling his knees towards his chest to help soothe the ache. Hot tears sting the corners of his eyes, and he bites his lip so hard that he can feel his teeth leave imprints. A soft sob escapes him, muffled into his pillow.

Why can’t he ever keep his shit together? This isn’t his first time dealing with these kinds of feelings. He’d had a rough time adjusting to life in space, sure, but Lance has learned to adjust. He’s learned how to cope with the homesickness, has been told time and time again by his newfound family that he _matters_. But the ache still sits heavy in his chest and it’s only gotten heavier. What makes it even more unbearable is the helpless frustration that accompanies it—he’s been doing _good_ , dammit! For once Lance has actually been feeling good about himself, good about what he brings to the team. Good about a lot of things, actually.

So why _now_ do his issues have to rear their ugly head? Right when he’s begun to find his footing in this crazy mess, right when he’s starting to feel like he could actually become the person he brags about already being? Frustrated tears fall down his cheeks.

This can’t be happening. Not now. He’s on 24/7 call as a defender of the universe; he hardly thinks that Zarkon will hold off until his depressive episode decides to let up. And what must the team think? He knows he’s been acting weird lately even for him, and tonight he’d run off in tears without a word. They must think he’s nuts. He rubs furiously at his wet eyes with the back of his hand.

  _Way to go, McClain,_ Lance thinks bitterly, _as if they don’t already think of you as a enough of a burden_.

 He doesn’t really care that he’d lost it in front of Hunk: he’s known for years about Lance’s struggles with this kind of thing, but he knows that the big guy worries whenever he’s having a particularly rough time with it. As for the rest of the team, well, he’d been hoping that maybe he could keep it together long enough to actually prove his worth. To actually live up to the title of Blue Paladin, to help defeat Zarkon and to get back home. There’s no reason to bring them all down with his baggage.

He thinks to the worried questions, the concerned stares, to Keith’s bright, bright eyes.

“…Lance?”

Lance jolts, wrapping his blanket tighter around himself out of instinct. He must have been too preoccupied wallowing in his own pity that he hadn’t heard the door slide open. He ducks his head lower into the folds, hoping to feign sleep. But Keith knows him better than that, and despite his lack of response goes to sit on the edge of his bed. Lance can’t see him, but he feels the dip of the mattress by his hip, the soft weight of a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, uh, I brought you some water and a few leftovers. Figured you might be hungry after...well, I brought them. If you are. Hungry, that is.”

Keith tries, bless him. He’s no Hunk, but the little fumbles in his speech are like salve to Lance’s aching.

Lance doesn’t answer for a moment. When he does, his voice is gravelly. “Thanks. What time is it?”

“Probably around 4 or 5? Not sure, but early enough that the others are still sleeping. If Pidge even sleeps, that is.”

He’d slept through the night? Something digs uncomfortably in Lance’s chest, the voiceless suggestion that nobody had even come to check on him until now floating in the back of his mind like smoke. He tries to shrug the thought off—after all, he isn’t that Lance anymore, hasn’t been for a long time, but it catches like a bur and prickles uncomfortably beneath his skin regardless. He curls further in upon himself, shrugging Keith’s hand off his shoulder.

 “I see. Thanks for the food.” Lance mumbles. “I’m gonna go back to bed.”

 “Lance,” Keith says, carting his fingers through the back of Lance’s hair. “Talk to me. What happened last night?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Lance says. The crack in his voice is completely unconvincing. He buries his face into the pillow. Tries to swallow down the lump in his throat. Tries to bite back the burn of tears. “Just…can you please go?”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Keith says sternly. “You’ve been acting strange for days. I don’t care what Hunk told us you wanted, I’m not just gonna sit by anymore and wait for you to come to us about whatever this is because you’re clearly not.”

Lance turns over with a scowl. “Maybe that’s for a reason.”

“Maybe it’s a stupid reason, then.” Keith counters.

Lance sits up with a start. “Don’t sit here and talk like you know what’s going on—”

“Then tell me!” Keith almost shouts. He takes a deep breath. Lance watches him visibly deflate with the action. When he meets Lance’s eyes again, that worried look is back and Lance’s stomach rolls. “ _Please_ ,” He asks, begs. His voice is quiet.

Lance hates this. He hates the look on Keith’s face; hates the pity, hates the worry, hates that he’s the one that _put it there_. He hates feeling like a burden, hates hearing that apparently they’ve all known something was wrong with him, hates that he’s so disgustingly _weak_.

His throat burns. Lance buries his face against his knees to keep Keith from seeing him cry.

“Lance,” Suddenly his arms are around Lance’s shoulders. “Lance, _Lance_ , what’s wrong? What’s happening? Was it something we did, was it something _I_ did?”

Lance wants so badly to assure him that they’ve done nothing wrong, that Keith has been nothing but wonderful, that _he’s_ the thing that’s wrong. But when he opens his mouth a low, choked sob comes out instead. He can practically feel Keith vibrating with panic beside him.

“I-It’s not…It’s not you,” Lance says shakily. “Promise.”

“Then what is it?” Keith says. Lance feels his fingers thread through his hair again, and he bites back a whimper. “Lance, please, I want to help.” 

“That’s just it, it isn’t _anything_!” Lance wants to shout with frustration. He’s never been more embarrassed or ashamed as he is right now. But the dam has broken, and it spills out in a messy, awful jumble. He pulls at his hair, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing, wishing for the tears to just _stop_. “There isn’t any reason why I should feel like this, but here I am anyway, crying like some little kid.”

Keith pulls him gently, and Lance falls willingly against his chest. He heaves out a sob, too tired to stop the flood. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this _so much_ ,” He cries, pressing his face against the side of Keith’s neck. “I’ve been able to deal with it, but lately it’s just been so bad. I can’t—I _can’t_ —”

 “ _Shhh_ ,” Keith coos, rubbing gentle circles against Lance’s shoulder. He pets his hair soothingly, and Lance whines pitifully. “Shhh, you’re okay. It’s okay, Lance. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

“But I’m _not_ ,” Lance sobs. “I’m _not_ okay. I constantly feel like there’s a big freaking crater in my chest and I’m so damn tired all the time. I miss home and I _know_ that I contribute to the team but lately I just…feel like none of it matters.” He trails off with a sniffle, rubs at his eye with his fingers. “The universe doesn’t have time for me to get my shit together. I’m a mess and there’s no good reason for it and I’m gonna end up being the one to ruin this whole damn thing.”

Keith’s arms wrap tighter around him. “You’re not going to ruin anything.”

 “How do you know? What if this starts getting in the way of me piloting Blue? What if we can’t form Voltron because my headspace is so screwed up—” 

“That’s not gonna happen.”

Keith says it with such surety that even Lance’s anxiety can’t doubt him. His voice is a confident anchor in the storm between his ribs, and Lance breathes in. Keith smells like leather and salt and something earthy that makes his heart pull, and it steadies him. 

“You sound pretty sure about that, Samurai.” Lance grins weakly against his throat. Keith’s chuckle is no more than a rumble against his ear, but the feeling is grounding.

 “Well, you’ve never given me a reason to doubt you.” He murmurs against the crown of Lance’s head. “Now are we gonna talk about this for real or what?”

“I told you, it literally is nothing.” Lance says. He pulls away to wipe at his swollen eyes, sniffling. “I’ve dealt with this for years. Sometimes it just kind of feels like—” He makes a vague waving gesture with his hands. “ _—too much_ , you know? Like one day I’m walking on water and the next thing I know I’m sinking in quicksand. Suddenly every little thing is an extra weight, every other thought is another cinderblock tied to my feet.”

Keith laces their fingers together and gives them a squeeze. Lance smiles a bit; it’s rare that he doesn’t wear his gloves, and he takes the time to commit his callouses to memory. His other hand brushes the bangs from his face, trails down his cheek where he runs a thumb across his temple.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” He asks.

Lance shrugs, a lopsided smile on his face. “And risk losing my flawless, godlike image? No thanks, dude.”

Keith grins a bit, pinching his cheek lightly. “Seriously, you dork.”

Lance swats his hand away. “Okay, okay, ease off the pinching. I haven’t done my face mask for like three days and the last thing I need is your greasy hands adding to the cesspools that are my pores at the moment.”

He turns to lean against the wall and Keith follows him. Despite having at least nine hours of sleep, Lance is still exhausted so he lays his head on Keith’s shoulder, letting the atmosphere settle. He doesn’t speak for a few minutes, choosing to instead close his eyes and match his breathing with Keith’s. Lance is half surprised that Keith hasn’t actually said anything yet—even after nearly three years in space and countless lectures from Shiro, for him patience is a hard-fought virtue.

“I’ve always had anxiety,” He starts. Keith remains silent, the only sound in the room being the shifting of fabric as he scoots closer to Lance. “I used to be on medication and stuff for it when I was little. I mean, I was when I was at the Garrison too, but I was working on weaning off of it. Felt like I could handle it better, I guess.”

He takes another deep breath, trying to calm himself. Lance tries to remind himself that this isn’t some stranger; this is _Keith_. He can trust Keith. Already does, with his life and his heart. So why is it still so scary to bare his soul like this? Maybe it’s because Keith is finally about to realize just how much baggage he comes with, just how damaged the goods are. The sudden jolt of fear makes Lance almost want to stop, but Keith’s arm slides around his shoulders and pulls him tight to his side. 

He feels Keith press a soft kiss to the top of his head, and somehow this vulnerability doesn’t seem so scary after all. So he takes a page from his boyfriend’s book and soldiers on.

“Then, well, the whole Voltron thing happened. I’m guessing I don’t need to elaborate here seeing as how you were there for it,” He jokes. Keith puffs out a small laugh beside him, but remains a steady, soothing silence beside him. “But like I said, I’ve gotten better over the years. I can talk myself down from panic attacks, and the homesickness is bearable now.

 But even then, it’s still _there_. Like, there’ll be good days and bad days and _really_ bad days, like the past few, but so far I’ve been able to deal with it. But now…” He pulls his knees to his chest. “It’s like lately I feel like I’m buried in an avalanche with no idea which way is up. And the worst part is I don’t even know _why_.”

“Why do you have to know why?”

Lance looks up at Keith’s violet eyes, bright even in the dim light of his bedroom. 

“What?”

“Why do you need a reason?” Keith asks him again. 

Lance shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe because if I _did_ know, then I could fix it somehow? Like I get that it’s all chemicals and neurotransmitters and stuff, but sometimes I really just wish that my brain had a face so I could punch it.” He turns to look at Keith with a wry grin. “Listen to me, I sound like you.”

Keith snorts. “I’m rubbing off on you.”

Lance chuckles, nudging him with his elbow. “Seems so. At least I know when to let a hairstyle die, though.”

 “I can leave, you know.”

 “Nooooo! We’re _bonding!_ ” Lance cackles. He wraps his arms around Keith’s waist and plants an obnoxiously loud kiss on his cheek. Keith wipes at his cheek with the back of his free hand, and even despite his annoyed _‘Lance!’_ he can see the amusement in Keith’s eyes. 

They play-wrestle for a moment, Lance trying to pepper Keith’s face with kisses while Keith tries to avoid him at all costs. It’s tiring and Keith’s knee is digging into his side and there may or may not be a few cheap shots involving tickling, but Lance can’t bring himself to care because this is the lightest he’s felt in days.

Unsurprisingly Keith manages to pin him, grin triumphant and hair mussed. Lance feels a surge of affection, and pulls him down to lay on his chest. Keith is surprised, but cuddles into the embrace regardless. Lance sighs, content for the first time in he doesn’t even remember how long. 

“Stay?” He asks.

Keith’s answer is the quiet thump of his boots hitting the floor as he toes them off and a gentle nudge to scoot over to give him room. Lance tucks himself beneath Keith’s chin, finds his pulse point and kisses it. They lay in silence as Keith pulls the covers up around them.

“Thank you.” Lance murmurs against his throat, breathing in the scent of Earth and Keith and calm.

“Anything for you.” Keith answers honestly, hands drawing soothing circles against his shoulder blades. They settle into silence again when Keith whispers, “You know you don’t have to deal with this alone, right?”

Lance is so close to drifting off that he almost misses it. “Huh?”

“This. You don’t have to do it alone, you dolt. Let me be _here_ for you. Let _us_ be here for you. Nobody’s going to think less of you for something you can’t control.”

“Thanks, Keith. And sorry for making you worry. And for…all of this, I guess.”

Keith flicks his ear, and Lance props himself up on his elbow to stare down at him in irritation. “Okay, even with all of this pity partying I’ve been doing, I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything to warrant an ear flick.”

“Don’t apologize.” Keith says sternly.

“Why not?” Lance demands. “I’m the one that’s made you guys worry about me and the one that got snot all over your shirt. Usually that warrants some sort of an apology.” 

“Well I’m not accepting it.”

“What?! Why _not_?!”

Keith levels him with a serious look, pressing his hands to his cheeks. “Because you didn’t do anything wrong. Are you making yourself feel like this on purpose?”

“No?”

“Did you get snot all over my shirt on purpose?” 

“No!” 

“Then don’t apologize.” Keith says simply. His expression softens as he reaches for Lance’s hand beneath the blankets. “Don’t ever feel sorry for the way you feel. And don’t think that you have to go through this on your own. No matter what, I’m here for you, Lance. So trust me, okay?”

Lance doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he collapses against Keith’s chest. He presses his face against the hollow of his neck, hoping that Keith can’t feel the fresh tears welling in his eyes. Despite the quicksand, it feels like some of the weights have been lifted, some of the anchor lines have been cut. His heart beats steadily. His lungs breathe in. Keith’s hand is tight in his own.

“Okay,” He agrees quietly. The thought of being this vulnerable still scares him, still sends shocks of electricity dancing down his limbs, but Keith’s presence dulls it to nothing but a distant hum. He presses one last kiss beneath his chin before settling in to sleep.

“Okay.”

The crater shrinks.


End file.
